


One or Two Smarties

by rispacooper



Category: due South
Genre: Angst and Humor, First Kiss, M/M, Pining, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-14
Updated: 2011-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-18 01:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which smarty-pants Fraser gets things so very wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One or Two Smarties

“Don’t worry, Fraser. We are going to nail that bastard, just you wait and see…” Ray is talking at full volume though in fact he is only a matter of yards away from where I’m standing, the distance between us growing and shrinking with each frantic step in every seemingly random direction that Ray’s body decides to move in Ray’s search for coffee filters. How Ray could possibly lose them in such a small space as his kitchen is a question that I do not bother to ask aloud at this point, knowing that it would only earn me a sharp glare and perhaps a threatened kick to the head before Ray continued his increasingly desperate hunt. So I watch instead, inhaling the artificial yet somewhat pleasing woodsy scent of Ray’s aftershave whenever Ray passes close, the cleaner underlying smell of Ray’s sweat and fresh deodorant, and the vaguest hint of the mint Ray had been sucking on after our stop at a diner for lunch.

Despite his tattered sneakers and clip-on sunglasses, Ray is surprisingly concerned with such proprieties, easily bothered by civilized details of styled hair and fresh breath and _not_ licking items found in the street no matter how relevant to an investigation they might prove to be. Most people would not think so from the usual state of his clothing and his relaxed attitude toward the rights of those he was currently interrogating, but Ray seems to be fairly conservative with regard to human behaviours. And though I am admittedly prone to fantasy, this often leads to me to believe that if Ray had someone to wash and fold his clothing for him, he would be the most meticulous of dressers. He might even rival the original Ray Vecchio for interest in matters sartorial.

It’s difficult to picture this Ray standing in one place long enough to iron anything, but I consider trying anyway, to exercise my mental facilities as Ray leaps forward to the cabinet he has already ransacked. Ray’s back is to me, and I let my eyes slide downward. As though to taunt me, half his shirt has been carelessly tucked into his pants, and I can recall Ray shoving his hand down into his jeans as we ran after another lead, how I nearly stumbled to see his hand disappear to his wrist underneath tight blue jeans. The free portion of his black shirt did not quite cover the faded denim stretched close over his skin, or the marks of white where the fabric is close to ripping.

Ray is stretching too, reaching beyond his limits to see on a shelf where it’s unlikely that Ray has ever put anything if it requires that much work simply to view it, though Ray is someone who seems to like things difficult. I move my eyes away from Ray’s undoubtedly unintentional display of his body and cough quietly to ease my dry throat.

Ray. Ironing. Perhaps using steam, which would of course cause what clothing he was wearing to stick to his body, a tantalizing side-effect only enhanced by Ray’s movements as he swung back and forth, dancing to the music that would no doubt be playing. Though reality immediately returns, as I find it always does, as I recall stories of Ray’s mother.

“I really do not need any coffee, Ray, but thank you kindly.” The words are, as Francesca might say, a waste of breath, and indeed they do not slow Ray’s actions, or his mouth. All speaking earns me is the sharp glare I predicted, tossed over one shoulder before Ray abandons the cabinet completely. A half step and one graceful twist lands Ray back in front of the coffee maker, and in front of me, just a foot’s distance between us now. It might have been less than that, if not for the counter. Ray’s movements reflect a subconscious awareness of that. His constant motions might seem awkward at times, but not once has he misjudged a distance. His ex-wife was quite right in that regard; Ray has never crossed a line.

“Maybe I need the coffee, all right, Fraser?” There are dark shadows under Ray’s eyes—the results of our week-long quest to track down a suspect—but I’m not staring at them, and when I finally direct my gaze elsewhere, Ray mutters under his breath so quietly I cannot pick out any specific words. After a moment I look back to see Ray glance down and smack the plastic coffee maker with more force than is warranted for an inanimate kitchen appliance. “Damn thing,” he curses it with sudden impatience, sliding his gaze back up to me and then away. A moment later Ray is stretching to peer at the top of his refrigerator, stepping back away though the kitchen is so small he could see just as easily from where he had been.

There were some who would not even call the tiny space a kitchen, but I think it suits Ray’s basic needs well enough. It has a refrigerator for beer, a gas range for his cans of soup, and, naturally, the coffee maker. There was of course, also a microwave oven, to reheat whatever leftovers that Diefenbaker had not yet managed to wheedle out of him.

There were also some who would argue that Ray Vecchio, as portrayed by Stanley Ray Kowalski, did not need any more caffeine in his system today, that the man was volatile even without stimulants and in his current exhausted condition. Which was perhaps why I didn’t say anything about the bag of coffee filters resting next to the television that I had noticed earlier. Nowhere near the kitchen, which wasn’t especially surprising if you knew Ray, but if Ray was able to calm himself enough to think clearly and recall what he had done with them last, then perhaps coffee would not do him any harm.

Though considering Ray’s mannerisms and somewhat erratic sleep pattern, I have lately begun to wonder if Ray uses coffee for the opposite effect as most. There have been several studies published about the paradoxical, calming effect of stimulants such as sugar and caffeine on adult hyperactivity. It’s unlikely that Ray has read these studies of course, so if it’s true, I can only assume that on some level, Ray is aware that he needs to relax and he knows the caffeine might help. If I were not here, he would most likely have turned on the television and had a beer instead. I do not need one of Ray’s hunches to know alcohol is a depressant.

I don’t like the image of Ray drinking alone in his apartment, and perhaps Ray does not either.

“I didn’t mean to force you over here, Fraser.”

I have a feeling my mouth is open so I clench my jaw to compensate, knowing Ray’s eyes are off me for the moment. I resist the urge to inquire just how Ray could have forced me to come to his apartment, just as I fight back the desire to inform Ray that there are few places I would rather be, even if I am tired as well. Our suspect was a criminal in both of our respective countries and was quite clever at covering his tracks. The search has been exhausting, and until today, completely fruitless.

Ray keeps talking, actually bending over to stare under the sink though I cannot imagine what would lead him to believe the filters had ended up with bottles of cleanser that appeared both unopened and covered in layers of dust. Ray seems as surprised to find them as I am, before he lowers his eyebrows and pauses, his fingers drumming across the countertop. “You know that. I mean, I’m sure you’re tired too, what with running after that guy today, even if it turns out he had a whatdayacallit, legitimate, reason to be wearing a trench coat and hangin’ out in front of Saint Anne’s…”

“Yes, well.” It’s hard not to pull at my collar at that, but Ray had also assumed the worst about the man, even if Ray hadn’t been the one to rather forcefully tackle him to the ground outside the grammar school. It’s not often I make a mistake that obvious, and even less often for Ray not to show his amusement at my error in snide remarks that approach obnoxious. “Single working fathers are not as rare as they used to be, Ray.”

“Exactly, what I’m sayin’, Fraser.” Ray nods back, his fingers shaped like a pistol as he points to me. His grin makes my lips curve into a smile of my own, and then he’s blinking, squinting as though he’s been blinded by the sun, or perhaps just needing his glasses. Just I open my mouth to inquire about his glasses, he shrugs, and I can see as he does that his shoulders are beginning to droop, and that this particular surge of restless energy is how Ray was handling his state of exhaustion. When he turns, I take a few, quick steps backward and push the bag of filters until it falls behind the television, as a purely precautionary measure. I’m back at the counter waiting when he turns back.

“Anyway, it made us think of lawyers, which lead us back to our perp, so it’s all the same, you know…difference.” There’s a box of candy next to Ray’s hand, and he’s flipping it over and sliding the thin cardboard flaps aside to reach for a piece. It’s what he would have used to sweeten his coffee if he’d had any, a little, pale violet-colored disc that he pops into his mouth and catches with his tongue.

He sucks on it loudly and I’m nodding, clearing my dry throat and wishing that Dief were here, begging for treats he did not deserve, or that I hadn’t set my hat down when I’d followed Ray in. My hands feel empty, so I slide them over the countertop, noting how cool it seems. I stop before my fingers might brush Ray’s. His do not pull away, but it is only a matter of minutes, perhaps seconds before something will set him off on the move once more.

“If I did not wish to be here, Ray, I would have returned to the Consulate.” It’s the truth, but Ray is sighing, and I do not believe that it is from relief. I have been careful, but then I have not yet begun to fully understand how this Ray’s mind works. I am not certain I ever will. It is possible that Ray does not even know what he really wants.

“Sure, Fraser.” Ray sighs again, and this one says he’s not quite convinced.

My hands leave the counter to pull at the restricting tabs along my collar, but Ray might comment on that, so I drop them to my sides. Ray’s hands slide slowly from the counter, no doubt subconsciously mimicking my motion.

“My only reason for hesitating was concern that you were in no state to be entertaining…”

“What do you mean by that?” Instantly insulted, Ray is jerking his chin up and stepping away from me; he leans easily against the stove top, his shoulders back even if he appears quite languid, leaving me to wonder if he is truly angry or simply arguing for the sake of arguing. It is quite brazen of him, to pose as he is, and I would imagine that it had provoked many a man into a street brawl of some kind, as some might take his display of his body in this manner as a show of weakness. I have often read my own wishes into it as well, but I was of course mistaken.

Ray’s willingness to engage in physical confrontations is legendary, so I do nothing, and I keep my gaze calm and steadfast on his face. When I do not take the bait, he stands up and runs a hand through his hair, his movements impatient and short once more. He is muttering under his breath again, and I suspect he has learned to keep his mumbling too low for my hearing range.

Ray didn’t take the time to style his hair in his spiked, upward fashion this morning, but enough of his gel must have been left in it to keep it malleable, because several of such gestures had left it swirled in an oddly appealing combination of respectable and defiant.

“Me?” he scoffs, deliberately roughing up his hair with his fingers now as though he had noticed my attention there, but I hadn’t seen him looking back at me, so it is most likely a coincidence. His hair is soft, and his fingers slip easily through it. “I’m tough, Fraser, don’t think otherwise just cause I ain’t survived a month or two in an artic igloo somewhere, with nothin’ but a package of seal jerky and a pet wolf to keep me company.”

“It wasn’t seal jerky, Ray.” My interjection goes unnoticed, as I thought it might. Ray is back on the hunt for the filters, talking loudly to himself about a cup of coffee costing two dollars now and filters not being much cheaper.

I should have returned to the Consulate. I am tired, Ray was right to say it, and if it would help Ray get some much needed sleep then I ought to leave. But whatever Ray needed tonight, sleep was evidently not it. I doubt that coffee was what he wanted either, despite his single-minded focus on the beverage. Distraction in the form of conversation was a likely candidate, since there were few Ray could confide in, undercover as he was. But of course, Ray would take a fight over talk any day, and I suspect he was definitely been attempting to provoke me.

The need to yawn hits me hard, and it’s only by tightening my jaw even harder that I stifle it. I can feel the scratch of my uniform just below the nape of my neck, where my undershirt does not cover the skin, but it is just another itch to deal with it, at the moment, and I set my shoulders and straighten, though serge does not allow much room for a tired, sagging posture as it is, and I do not think Ray can see me.

“It is a shame the records office will be closed until tomorrow morning, or we could have gotten his ex-girlfriend’s sister’s address and arrested him tonight. Or I should say his current girlfriend’s…”

Ray glances back to me at my conversational gambit, scowling so heavily that for a moment I suspect he has guessed that I hid the filters from him. I can almost imagine the idea growing in the back of Ray’s mind, a vague, formless cloud slowly pushing its way forward. But then he shrugs, and if the notion was there, it’s gone now.

“Don’t you worry, Fraser, we’ll get the bastard.” He insists once more, and pops another candy into his mouth. This one is light blue and chalky; it paints his lips, and he stares at me for a long time, letting it partially dissolve on his tongue. When I swallow, Ray bites down hard on whatever remains between his teeth and spins around. There are yards between us once again. “If you’re thirsty…” There Ray pauses, waving his hand in a vaguely annoyed gesture, but he continues talking before I can try to dissect the exact meaning. “I think I got some tea in the pantry there, Fraser,” he yells as he slips into his bedroom. His tone is decidedly suspicious.

I can hear clothes rustling and Ray muttering to himself. I try to ignore both sounds, but I detect the gentle scrape of leather as Ray removes his holster, the clank of metal as Ray opens his belt.

“Thank you kindly, Ray.” Ray does not catalogue details as I do, but he will notice if my courtesy would lapse, as would the spirit of my mother, I am certain, so though I have no interest in tea at the moment, I thank him anyway. The tea is for me, and only me, but he will not say so. For more reasons I will never understand, he would find that embarrassing, to have me know he was thinking of me.

I find that I’m frowning thoughtfully, clasping my hands behind my back for a moment as I consider tonight in light of that. Ray and I have “hung out” as the vernacular goes despite the lack of hanging activities, after work at his apartment before, to watch a sporting event, to eat takeout, to go over case notes, things of a perfectly acceptable nature between two police partners. However, none of those reasons motivated Ray to invite me here tonight, not that he had yet mentioned.

“What no Inuit stories out there?” Ray is still calling out, bothered by my silence. He likes the distraction of noise, fights, the radio, idle chatter. I wonder if, like with the coffee, he uses it as a tool to help him focus. Ray’s IQ seems above average, but I would venture to guess that he has never been able to take the tests successfully. Like this apartment, Ray’s brain was likely filled to the brim with everything he needed and many things he didn’t, but he could never find what he needed when he needed it without help. He had operated on his own intuitive coping system for so long that he most likely was not even aware that it _was_ a system.

“Fraser?” Ray’s voice is warmer, closer and I turn my head to see him standing in his bedroom doorway, watching me. My face is heating, so I quickly look away. He’s wearing an old, thin sweatshirt, the kind he would wear to go sparring and it somehow seems to emphasize his wiry strength, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms, the neckline stretched over time so that now most of his throat and some of his collarbone are exposed.

I blink when I realize I must have been staring and open my mouth in an imitation of a yawn. Ray is watching me, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand, making his shirt ride up to expose a hint of his stomach, and I do my best to simply seem tired. It isn’t as difficult as it ought to be, and Ray shakes his head slightly and drops his hand to his side. He looks as though he might say something, and I lick my lips.

“Yes, Ray?”

“Thought you’d left…” There is perhaps a trace of anxiety in Ray’s voice before he seems to forget the rest of his thought, and then he is shaking himself loose and heading back to the kitchen, sweeping his arms past my head with one expansive stretch, fingers just missing my ear before he is out of reach. “I’d thought you’d jump at the chance to tell me about your pilot friend’s cousin Charlie who went out fishing one day and hooked a bear.” Ray is mocking me, just a little, but his accurate recitation of the facts indicates he had listened after all. I smile and he sees it, actually growing still.

I realize I am staring again and so I blink, not quite faking another small yawn. Ray’s eyes flick toward the floor, and when he looks back up, there’s a strange smile on his face that Ray—Vecchio—might have called _hinky_. The exact meaning of which I could never get from Ray, but which implied I ought to be on my guard. But as I am already always watching myself around this Ray, I don’t question it.

“I just bought those damn things…” he says, and though Ray often criticizes my stories of home as being non-sequitors that have nothing to do with the current situation, many times I find myself quickly searching my mind to follow the scraps of Ray’s thoughts back to a discussion I had thought ended. He leaves them behind in conversation as a child in a fairy tale might leave bread crumbs to find their way home.

“You mean the coffee filters, Ray?”

“Yeah, Fraser, of course I mean the coffee filters. What did you think I meant, your pilot friend’s cousin Charlie, or the friggin’ bear? I’ve been talkin’ about coffee for close to twenty minutes now. I need a good, strong cup of…Fraser?”

I don’t know if it is Ray’s way of phrasing his question or how he suddenly grows quieter, pausing half-bent to peer into the pantry he had just searched moments before, trailing off as he shoves aside the unused boxes of tea, but I freeze just as Ray does, and I can see the furrow between his eyebrows, the sharp realization in them as he glances up at me. Whatever he caught in my expression did not steal that gleam of awareness from his eyes, even if his mouth did soften as though he were secretly pleased, and it is in moments like this that Ray, focused and intent, reminds me of a very hungry Diefenbaker when the scent of meat is in the air.

“You hid them, didn’t you, Fraser?” I can barely hear him, my thoughts are suddenly swirling, buzzing inside my mind like a thousand bees, like the tornadoes I have seen images of on the news reports, circling around and around with great noise, getting closer and closer to one inescapable result, and for one dizzy, enthralling second as I consider clapping my hands over my ears, I wonder if this is what Ray’s mind is like all the time. If this is what it is to be blind, stumbling drunk. Even as I try to get my thoughts and impressions back in their proper order, more are thrown at me, so quickly I can barely get a good look at them.

The bitterness of coffee now would be a jolt, a pleasurable distraction, and yet I know that is not a taste I want on my tongue. I need something sweet to keep those bees at bay, and I study Ray and the traces of candy dotting his lips, how those lips shape my name. Ray bringing me here flashes in the back of my mind and I can feel his eyes on me. Tea. My mouth waters for it, and then the thought is forgotten. Replaced with Ray in dark-rimmed glasses, thick lenses to ensure that he would not miss when he asked me that question, what even I had known that no Chicago police officer ought to be asking his male partner. The stale air of the crypt mingling with gun oil to burn my nostrils as I’d pondered how best to answer, deciding on careful honesty. I hadn’t seen Ray’s request coming at all and I did not need glasses. Perhaps I need to schedule an eye exam, or ask for another visit with Inspector Thatcher’s psychiatrist.

But I forget my worries at almost the same moment, as I’m too busy wondering if Ray has honey for my tea, if Ray ever really cared about coffee filters.

I may have nodded. Or my silence was a confession in itself, because Ray was making strangely pleased, triumphant sounds and shaking his head at the same time, gesturing at me with quick hands.

“I knew it! Don’t trust the Mountie with the innocent face!” Ray stops long enough to aim his rather fierce interrogation face at me and then he springs forward, across the counter until he is in my space, shaking his fist in a manner that I believe is meant to be threatening, at odds with the light in his eyes, so close to mine. “I want my goddamn coffee filters, Fraser.”

“Do you, Ray?” My chest reverberates with my low question, the words out of my mouth before I even realize I am going to speak, and then my chin is up, challenging in a way that someone like Ray will instantly understand. It is not a _thing_ in the wind; it is the wind itself rushing around us. It is instinct, and that is something Ray knows better than anyone.

Ray’s head goes back, his surprise at my tone evident before he visibly shakes it off and steps right back into the fight, back into my space, not touching me even now because Ray never crosses a line.

The buzzing is a rush of moving air now, pushing me forward until I am almost right there, and I feel as though I could reach out now if I want it, reach through the constant distraction and chaos and just pluck out what I need if I know what that is. And I _must_ move; my muscles are tingling as though I was bound and I have just been released, and it would only take a suggestion to get me in motion.

I extend my hand to feel the hard surface of the countertop and roll my shoulders, my uniform stiff and restricting, my pants tight. I wish I had something loose, something soft along my skin, and if I were closer, I could reach for cotton, sweat, grey, the Cubs, details that fly right past me but which I know mean Ray’s sweatshirt. But my motion is limited by the scratching, thick red of my uniform, so I shift my feet and lean further over the countertop, noticing how Ray’s eyes are wide, his hair on end and startled, his lips parted as though I have actually managed to silence him.

Except.

“Fraser?” Ray barely whispers my name and I go blessedly deaf with the momentary silence of revelation. Around me it’s clear and bright and sharp, and I could be home, all alone on a sea of ice and clean, white skies but for the sound of Ray Kowalski calling my name.

“Do you find me attractive, Ray?” This one thing. This inescapable conclusion at the center of everything, and all my observations and careful addition did not help me to see it. I think perhaps I am blushing.

Ray’s eyes go right to mine, colour stealing across his cheeks, air leaving his mouth in short, hot bursts so close I could lick the sugar from my lips and then he pulls in a long, shaky breath before yanking his head up.

“What the hell kind of question is that to ask somebody?” He demands, his voice rising, as he slams hand down hard on the counter between us, his head already moving back and forth to deny any other possible answer he might make. I’m blinking rapidly at the display, swallowing my tongue and wishing suddenly that I had been silent. “What the hell kind of dumb Mountie shit is that to pull out of nowhere after all this time?”

Ray forces a sneer onto his face and looks down before I can remind him of the truth he already knows. I doubt I could speak the words, the storm is gone and the quiet leaves my mind no place to go but to this. Terror is slick oil in my stomach, cold in my veins.

“All I wanted was some freakin’ coffee, Fraser and now you…you’re putting _this_ on _me_.” His gaze lands on the coffee maker and it stays there for a long moment while he swallows and fails to keep his breathing even. Ray is telling me something, or he would be if he could find the right words to say it, and I frown and pull my head to one side.

My breath is harsh to my ears, labored though I’ve hardly moved from this spot in my entire time here, it was Ray moving all around me as I stood still and waited for him to finally come to rest.

Except…

“Just because I invited you here, don’t mean you got any right to come into my place, Fraser and ask me somethin’ like that without any kind of warning, and…” Ray moves quickly, gracefully, but I have my hand out before he can twist fully away from me. The bones of his wrist are hard against my palm, nothing to the painful dig of his bracelet into my skin.

He jerks once before his eyes have to return to my face, his glare reminding me of just what I am doing to him, asking something so personal, even of a friend. I know I am blushing now, but I do not let go. And I do not speak, I do not think I am able yet, and still Ray is glaring at me, waiting to hear my reply.

“Fuck you, Fraser,” Ray swears to shock me, his canines bared, and again I am reminded of Dief. “Kiss my ass if you think you’re gonna pin this on just me here.”

My chin comes up as though I wish to bare my neck, and my heart is loud in my ears, strong like an approaching ‘el’ train and I tremble as though the platform is rumbling beneath me.

“Ray.”

In the near silence that follows, I can hear Ray’s every wet, strangled breath. His pulse is racing under my fingertips, and I choke on the sudden fear that perhaps my surge of animal instinct was wrong, that Ray does not seek calm, but uses constant motion and sugar rushes to save himself from this.

I know it is on my face, and I blink and open my mouth to form the heartfelt apology I must make, pushing out only empty air. Like Ray, I cannot find the words, and when my eyes drop, when I pull in a long, much-needed breath, Ray leans in to press his mouth hard to mine, his candy-coated lips moving as though he cannot decide whether to kiss or speak. I can feel him tremble, just as I feel the strength in the hand he slides to the back of my head, holding me still, gripping my short hair as if I might run, all while his lips bruise mine, while his teeth scrape my cheek and jaw before he returns blindly to my mouth. His breath is fast and hot, and low noises escape from his throat when I finally bend my head and push back, noises I echo a moment later at the touch of his tongue to mine. Tart sugar. Traces of mint. Unimportant details because this is all of Ray, and Ray is kissing me.

My throat is raw with the words caught there and I know Ray can taste them. And still I am leaning forward, shuddering at the soothing burn of his hand at my neck, allowing it. But I grunt slightly at the discomfort of the counter against my stomach and Ray swears and yanks himself back at the sound.

“Yeah?” Ray shivers a moment later in the space across from me, glaring, one hand at his mouth though he does not seem aware of it. Something similar to rage radiates from him despite his red lips and flushed cheeks, and he looks me right in my face. I do not wish to know what I look like; I can guess well enough. My tongue swipes across my swollen lips to taste Ray’s spit once more and Ray watches that, his eyes narrow. I’d nearly forgotten his challenging question until he speaks again, his chin jerking up. “And you love me, Fraser.”

“I…”

I can’t breathe but I shut my mouth and stare back at Ray, aware that my nostrils must be flared, that my eyes are wide, that I’m visibly frightened as a hundred memories replay in my mind. There are no distractions to keep me from thinking clearly, I am in fact the one who removed each one from this path that Ray set us on by inviting me here; the case is as resolved as it can be tonight, and there will not be any coffee. Even Diefenbaker is at home.

I gasp softly at the full awareness of my errors in logic, in reasoning that everything tonight had been for Ray’s benefit.

Ray moves suddenly, falling back on his heels restlessly, his bracelet making small, tinkling sounds as he drops his hand. Details I’ve noticed a thousand times. But the conclusions I reached from them were faulty, they were…wrong. Ray is not standing still, but Ray _is_ waiting. Ray…knows what he wants. Ray knows what _I_ want.

“Yes, Ray.” My voice is quiet, and slightly rough, and I still do not know how I appear, but it is evidently more pleasing to Ray than I have ever previously dared to imagine. My face is hot and I lick my mouth again, searching for evidence. “And you love me.” This is all there is to mitigate how blind and stupid I have been, and I find it is more than adequate. Perhaps…perhaps there is something to Ray’s coping system after all.

Ray is slips back into my space, gliding forward until his feet bump loudly into the counter and as he does not seem to care, I find I do not either.

“You’re a real smart guy, you know that, Fraser?” Ray’s irony does not go unnoticed; neither does his sudden, blinding smile and his obvious amusement at my rather glaring mistake. I’m frowning a little as he continues, not that this stops him, and I’m not sure that Ray doesn’t deserve this moment of triumph. “But you know what else…?” Tired or not, Ray is close to hopping from foot to foot his excitement is so high, his body so tightly wired that I’m briefly surprised he does not glow and crackle like alternating current.

“…You think too much,” he tells me, as though he suspects that I am still trying to reason out where I failed to see that he had already guessed everything. “And I want my filters back, Benton,” he adds, sliding my given name across his mouth like he would a piece of his candy.

Gloating is childish and I consider telling Ray that, but I have a suspicion it will result in something equally childish. I look away from the remarkable sight of Ray instead, shifting my stance. The counter is still between us, and I reach down and pluck a stray piece of Ray’s coloured sugar. I notice that it’s pink before I pop it into my mouth and suck at the first crumbling layer of sweetness. It buzzes through my blood.

“Understood.”

Ray seems momentarily nonplussed, his eyes possibly the widest I have ever seen them. These candies do seem to have miraculous restorative powers, because I no longer feel any need to yawn and evidently, neither does Ray. He is moving, circling neatly around the obstacle in the way as though it is not truly there, and I remain where I am, watching Ray gracefully eliminate the distance.


End file.
